


Plush

by The Hedonistic Angel (englandwouldfalljohn)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Positive Fic, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Confident Aziraphale, Disaster Demon, Emotional Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Not-pocalypse, Other, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, Sassy Aziraphale, Slash, Smut, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Well - Freeform, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 03:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19844512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/The%20Hedonistic%20Angel
Summary: Drink, sober, sleep: Crowley's plans for the evening are simple. That is, until he encounters something unexpected on his way to bed...





	Plush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsNoggin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Kat <3

If he had had two hearts, at that moment, they both would’ve stopped. For there, sat primly atop the charcoal duvet covering his enormous bed, was a sight he had somehow never anticipated. White legs, crossed at the ankle, stretched from beneath tartan boxer shorts. A faded tome was held casually just there, where the waist made a ninety-degree turn to allow a second expanse of pale skin to rest against the black leather headboard. A miracled set of silver reading glasses perched on an unconcerned nose. 

Crowley lowered his head the slightest bit, blinking over his sunglasses, as if the image would somehow resolve itself into something more logical with the addition of the room’s dim light. The only effect was to highlight the nonchalant confidence of the figure before him, who his brain could only describe, in its charmingly blunt fashion, as a chubby angel.

***

The evening had started the usual way, with dinner and a bottle (bottles) of wine at some upscale establishment or other that Aziraphale had been ‘itching to try.’ The days since the Almostpocalypse had been sunny and mild -- there had been rather more than five of them -- and the pair of them had not yet finished their revelries. When they’d determined it was time to stagger out of the restaurant’s bar, into which they had relocated following Aziraphale’s generous sampling of the dessert trolley’s wares, the angel had insisted they part ways with the Bentley until they had an opportunity, through fresh air or a stash of empty bottles in a private room, to sober up. It was certainly due to his joy at their clever defeat of The Powers That Be, and to absolutely nothing more, that Crowley had grudgingly agreed. Being that his flat was considerably closer, and that he tended to meander that way out of habit, they soon found themselves in his sparse sitting room, alcohol draining from their systems and being replaced by a congenial calm. 

His mind a pleasant haze of nothingness, Crowley sat draped over the arm of a sofa, stroking the velvety leaves of a rare echeveria in its place of honour on his side table. He barely registered the mumble of his companion, nodding automatically in response to whatever had been said. Minutes passed -- three, thirty… he couldn’t say -- when it occurred to him that the space on the loveseat opposite, which had lately been occupied by a figure in a linen jacket (of all things), was now empty. 

Assuming the angel’s earlier speech had been a brief farewell, he wandered through rooms, snapping out lights and mentally preparing for a nice, deep sleep. It’d become a welcome custom of his over the recent centuries, and he was quite fond of the sensation of his limbs sliding against cool sheets before he allowed his consciousness to slip gloriously away. It was only when his foot had crossed the threshold of his bedroom did he notice the lit lamp on the nightstand. A lamp he most certainly had not left on. And then… yes. The angel.

‘I dare say you ought to make yourself comfortable,’ Aziraphale invited, turning a tea-stained page then raising his eyes, letting them openly appraise the figure staring back at him. ‘And while you’re at it, don’t tell me you sleep -- yes, yes, I know you sleep -- don’t tell me you do it with those infernal glasses glued to your face.’

Crowley shifted his weight uneasily, hands hanging numb at his sides. Sleep. Glasses. This could not possibly be happening, and yet, as the sound of another page turning reached him as though it’d traveled a tremendous distance simply to confirm the reality of his situation, he knew it must be true. 

‘Clothes. Yes. Right,’ he enunciated, brows furrowing as he glanced down, suddenly uncertain of how the fastenings on his jacket worked. 

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Aziraphale huffed gently, setting his book and glasses on the night table and throwing a pointed look at the demon before crossing to stand before him. One fond smile and a flick of the wrist, and Crowley was stripped down to his pants. Reflexively, he straightened his slender back as one hand flew to the stem of his sunglasses, holding them as a life-preserver in unfamiliar waters. 

‘Don’t fuss, now,’ was the only warning he’d gotten before deft fingers ripped away the offending item and tossed the dark shades to the floor, where they bounced safely on the plush carpeting. ‘There, now. Isn’t that be-- what’s-- Cr-Crowley? Are you… alright?’

Their slightly parted mouths formed mirror images, as one was obviously working to make sense of what he saw, and the other… well, the other knew exactly what was being seen. Crowley’s eyes, the eyes of a demon, of a snake -- the eyes he took great pains to hide -- had lost all trace of their whites as anxiety replaced self-assurance. He knew that those eyes, those yellow eyes, complete with expanded pupils, told more of a story than that dusty volume by his bed ever could. 

‘Aziraphale, I- wa- y- it-’ he stammered, knowing that, for once, he had no clever turn of phrase that would save him. 

‘Ohh,’ the angel interrupted, an expression of total understanding crossing his features. ‘I see. Tell me then, Crowley; what, precisely, do you think of me?’

He inhaled a fortifying breath and looked across the narrow space between them. This might be his only chance to take in the disrobed, almost fully bared body before him, and, being but a demon after all, he would take it. Strong shoulders, blond-dusted chest. Rounded abdomen, rather full thighs. A physical form designed to be perfectly unremarkable.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he directed to a faint freckle on the angel’s left shoulder. ‘I think you’re beautiful.’

The freckle, the shoulder, and the entire body approached. 

‘Of course you do.’

A small, self-deprecating smile lifted the corner of Crowley’s mouth. ‘I suppose you’ll tell me, it’s because you’re made in Her image.’

‘No,’ Aziraphale answered kindly, a hand reaching out slowly to grasp Crowley’s own. ‘You think I’m beautiful,’ he continued, guiding the now-bewildered figure toward the foot of the bed, ‘because you love me.’

Yellow eyes met blue just as the angel spun them, pressing Crowley’s back toward the mattress with an unseen force all his own. As he backed himself toward the pillows, Aziraphale crawled slowly, deftly above him, until he was nestled against the rapidly warming fabric, pink lips grazing his ear.

‘Angel, I-’ he began, desperately dragging his brain back online. ‘I always thought if it came to this, it’d be me doing the pinning.’

‘Crowley, my dear, we were both in Rome. You may have tempted emperors… but I brought down the Empire.’ The tip of a nose trailed halfway down his neck. ‘May I?’

‘Y-yes,’ he heard himself consent through the layers of anticipated sensation in which he was already happily drowning. The decadent pressure of Aziraphale’s tongue, teeth, lips, breath were marking his skin; a hand sliding possessively down his side branding him, as though there could ever be another after this, as though there ever would have been one before. As confident fingers reached his hips, the last vestments separating their flesh evaporated, and Crowley let out a wanton moan, his pleasure magnified by its echo sounding above him. A searching mouth climbed up the length of his neck, finally hovering above his own, holy lips a hair's breadth away. 

‘Wait.’ Crowley’s voice trembled, pausing on the edge of this frontier of intimacy. ‘I’ve never… w-what if… w-what if I’m not… if I can’t…’ He trailed off hoping, knowing, that his meaning would bleed through.

‘I’ll take whatever you can give me,’ Aziraphale returned, eyes shining, ‘and it will be perfect.’

As the final distance closed between them, thick teardrops ran down Crowley’s face. He knew his Angel would notice, and he knew he would understand. 

The tenderness of the moment gradually waned as the friction between their forms demanded attention. Despite both hands finding their way into artfully disarranged red hair, Aziraphale managed to align their bodies; every slide, every thrust, every downward snap of padded hips found them gasping, moaning, chasing a high the likes of which neither had ever known. Slim fingertips dug deeper into the soft flesh of a powerful back as Crowley arched higher, higher, sweaty body grinding furiously upward until it struck -- pleasure burgeoning on pain, a blinding light and a single word:

‘Azzziraphale!’

A choking, stuttered breath in his ear answered his call a moment later, and with the last of his earthly strength, he wrapped his arms around the only source of joy he’d ever known; the only one he’d ever need. 


End file.
